


Give in to you endlessly

by SnowHime



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Art and Literature References, Caretaking, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Obession, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Tender and Dreamy, Will is a Mess, doting hannibal, kinda pre-Daddy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:01:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29065503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowHime/pseuds/SnowHime
Summary: Havana was beautiful, and hazy, and trapped them in a dreamy, fevered sweetness of a little paradise.A Honeymoon.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Give in to you endlessly

It was many and many a year ago,  
In a kingdom by the sea,  
That a maiden there lived whom you may know  
By the name of Annabel Lee;  
And this maiden she lived with no other thought  
Than to love and be loved by me.

\- Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee.

“So.” Hannibal says, eyes on the road, hands on the steering wheel. “Did you consider thinking about a new name yet, Will?”

Will doesnt look up at him, but his head slightly twitches to Hannibal's side. Wind from the half open window ruffles his wild mass of hair chaotically, and Hannibal reaches to tuck a lock behind his ear, so it won't fall on Will's eyes. His hair is long and tangled, and Hannibal wants to get a comb out of a bag in a trunk, sit Will in front of him and just groom him for an hour or so.

“Not really.” Will says, in his sharp petulant angst. “I simply don't know which name gonna fit me anymore.” He makes a long pause, this beautiful distraction from watching the road, and finally adds sardonically, "for you, however, I would offer Humbert Humbert."

"Will." Hannibal says, slightly raising his eyebrows in amusement, "As much I appreciate your knowledge in Russian literature, that was quite of a reach, don't you think? I'm not your adductor, nor you are a child. "

Will makes a purposely fake content face, blinking owlishly in the best imitation of naivety, and nodes several times.

"Sure." Will frowns. "It's not like you...manipulated me, used my trust, stripped away my innocence, hurt me and took away my already brief chances for a normal life." He smiles, then, with gritted teeth. "Right?"

His question sounds hypothetical, but Hannibal still gives it a thought, not really affected by Wills angry outburst disguised with politeness. 

"Well. When you put it that way." He says, optimistic. "I, however, have only the very best intentions for you, Will."

The weather was hot, burning sun up in the sky. Swan Lake Suite Op. 20 is streaming out of car speakers softly, and Hannibal thinks about Will's desperate attempt to die together, like some Shakespearean lovers, pushing them off the cliffside, into the cold darkness of the water, into the endless oblivion. 

A fall from grace.

It wasn't the ultimate end per se, but it was an end to their old selves, and it was their rebirth. Coming into life, not from the flesh and blood, but from something more powerful and less human, from the sea shore, licked over by salty cold waves, erupted onto the earth by them. 

It was Hannibal's duty to show Will the light. To guide him. To teach him how to live again and raise him up. 

"Sure you do." Will answers, voice cracking and genuine, this time. He looks pale against the colorful splash of palm trees on the background. "You always do."

```

When their wounds were healed enough, they began the great escape with road trips, flights, camouflages and fake personas. Will followed Hannibal's lead like he followed his fathers, once, when he was a child, and Hannibal took great pride for doing a better job than his actual father did - and than Jack did. 

His hands tucked Will to bed, his hands healed his wounds, his hands fed him, and clothed him, and held him when it was needed, or when Hannibal decided what it was needed.

He made sure Will was never alone anymore. 

What neither of them was.

While Hannibal thought what Will's idea was quite a reach (although, no doubtedly, it had its points), he did take some inspiration (with artistic liberations), from Nabokov. 

They settled in Cuba, Havana, not without a little help of Chiyoh, and for now, by the legend, Hannibal was a teacher and a writer, who was working on a literatury book, and Will, his Will, was playing a role of his nephew, hunched with a mourn of a mutual fictional loss - death of Hannibal's careless brother and Will's caring father.

Unfortunate car crash explained Will's scars. His skittish behaviour. Heavy shadows under his eyes.

Public welcomed them with open arms, both intrigued and respectful about the family drama, hungry for a new reason for gossip, charmed and enchanted. 

They wouldn't be, of course, as reckless as Hannibal was with Bedelia, and both - their legend and Will's language barrier (though Hannibal was persistent with teaching him Spanish, and Will was indeed a talented student), kept them from other people like an invisible wall. People might take a peek, touch a surface, but no one here would ever be able to pass it.

Havana was beautiful, and hazy, and trapped them in a dreamy, fevered sweetness of a little paradise. 

A Honeymoon.

They walked a lot, they ate, and smiled, and swimmed, and explored everything that caught their gaze. Hannibal got them tailored clothes, sophisticated and light, and was consistent and content with providing Will the necessary and unnecessary. 

Will was terribly stubborn in keeping his old aftershave, despite knowing Hannibal's distaste for it, and, more likely, _because_ of Hannibal's distaste for it. 

It was an echo of a teenage scented rebellion that so often graced Will's adamant spirit, and Hannibal couldn't help the alchemistic mix of amusement, annoyance and endearment that swelled inside his chest.

He showed Will El Morro Castle, Plaza Vieja, Museums of Fine Arts and Decorative Arts. They rested under the all forgiving gaze of Christ of Havana.

The first they visited The Great Theatre, it was a Carmen opera. 

Will watched it, and Hannibal watched him. 

They took a box seat, away from the crowd, shadowed and rising above from the rest of the audience. Will mirrored his cross legged sitting pose, in effortless, indifferent elegance. He watched, in a crimson red shirt, styled curls around his face, with a slightly doomed expression which creeped out of him occasionally after Hannibal mercilessly broke something in him long ago to cultivate and grow something else instead.

Je ne menace pas, j'implore, je supplie ;  
notre passé, Carmen, je l'oublie.  
Oui, nous allons tous deux  
commencer une autre vie,  
loin d'ici, sous d'autres cieux !*

Not a thing changes in Will's face when Jose stabs Carmen, but his fingers trace a wide scar hidden under his shirt, and Hannibal's eyes go a little teary, and he puts his heavy hand on the back of Will's neck. Gently, gently.

"Well, at least both of them had guts to do what they had to do." Will shrugs after, making a scrunchy face, when Hannibal asks what he thought about it.

When the local high society circles around them, Will tenses and flutters like a pinned butterfly under a scrutinizing gaze of peasants seeking cheap amusement. He shakes hands (palm always up), puts his glasses back on his face and asks to excuse him, leaving Hannibal to play his part and direct the orchestra, and walks away, to wait Hannibal in the dark of the breezy evening.

 _Yes, magnificent place, we are really charmed_ , he flirts with the audience. _Excuse my nephew. He is a complete orphan, now, and it's still hard for him to bear - no matter what age, this kind of loss is always heartbreaking, especially to the sensitive ones. I thought the change of setting would be good for both of us_. 

_You see_ , Hannibal said, _we have no one but each other_.

```

He wakes up from the cold knife blade carefully pressed to his throat. Will looming in front of him, blue eyes gleaming in the dark. 

Beautifully predatory.

“Will.” Hannibal blinks out of his dreams, steadying his breath. “I thought we are past this stage of relationships.”

Will's pale chest rises and falls slowly, ivory in the moonlight.

“Old habits die hard.” Will answers, lifting his chin so slightly. He observes Hannibal, searching and waiting for something, stilled and alluring like a Greek statue.

Hannibal relaxes. There is something very precious in this desperate display of power. Very powerless.

“Don't bite the hand that feeds you.” He offers, crossing his hands on his stomach casually, like they are talking about what sort of tea Will wants for breakfast. 

"I could kill you, right now." Will says softly. Hannibal swallows and feels the coldness of the metal on his adam apple. 

"You could," he answers calmly, drinking emotions from their steady eye contact. "But would you?"

Will falters, jaw set, eyebrows knitted up. His hands start to shake progressively and Hannibal feels it on his skin.

Slowly but surely, he takes the knife from Wills cold fingers, and puts it on his night table. Will exhales loudly, and Hannibal stands up from the bed with calculated movements. 

When Hannibal puts his hands on Wills shoulders, he twitches, like a wild animal, but then ducks his head and hides it in the crook of Hannibal's neck, tired.

Hannibal hugs him and they stand like this for some moment, before he gently pushes Will on his bed.

"That's better." He murmurs, covering Will with a thin blanket and tucking him like a father would, hushing him when he grunts. Will shakes, covered in glistening sweat, looking like one of the saint martyrs who came from a Caravago brush; raging vulnerability that needs to be savoured like the finest and rarest delicacy. 

Hannibal pets his damp curls.

When his violent trembling stops and his heart rate comes back to more or less normal state, Hannibal lays near him and slips under the blanket.

"If we looked at least a little bit similar," Will murmurs out after, "Would you tell them what you are my father?"

Hannibal allows himself a smile, unseen and hidden in the darkness.

"Yes." 

"Well. That's disturbing." Will snorts, but there is only relief and denial in his voice, and Hannibal thinks, _oh, dear boy, the things I would do to you, the things I will do to you_. "But, I guess. What is disturbing for others is normal for us."

"It is, isn't it." Hannibal wonders, awed, astonished. "Sleep now, Will."

```

"Would you pose for my art?" Hannibal asks, sitting in a dark robe in an armchair. A book in his hand, Dracula ( _self projecting, count Lecter? Will teased_ ,) and a glass of a red wine besides him.

Will glances at him from the tablet where he probably binge watches something like animal video compilations and dog meme pages on facebook, that Hannibal often saw in a browser history (often enough to almost be sorry about his indifference toward the idea of keeping an animal - _almost_ ), then gives him and awkward crooked grin and scoffs, waving him off.

Hannibal continues to stare at him intensively, patiently, and finally Will looks up at him again.

"You aren't serious." He says. Hannibal raises his eyebrows, and Will makes a disbelieving sound, tossing the tablet aside, and rolls on his stomach. "You _are_ serious." He deadpans. 

"I am." Hannibal offers an assuring smile, putting his book down. "Is it so hard to believe?"

Will makes big eyes, and shifts on the bed, uncomfortable.

"I just...don't see the reasoning." 

"Do we need one?" 

For some time, the room is filled with silence. 

"My body is a crime scene." Will says, pointing on his scars, voice thick and low. "My face is a crime scene. My mind..." He traces off, getting lost in the thought, then sits up, fingers tapping his knee. 

Hannibal leans forward, looking at him attentively. Will's self deprecation pains him, sometimes, and, as many other feelings Will is awakened in him, awakens daily, it's hard to bear. "Will. Do you feel ashamed of your scars?" He asks, gently.

They both have scars, of course, but it's Will who doesn't have the luxury of hiding most of them under the clothes.

"Uh. Not ashamed, no." Will massages the back of his neck, restless. "It just...feels like I'm a worn out suit, ready to be tossed aside. What do you do with a cracked teacup, when it stops serving its purpose?"

"Scars remind us about the irreversible tangle of life and death. They are both symbols of human fragility, and human power." Hannibal says. "Besides, there is a certain beauty in imperfection that absolute perfection could never have. Venus De Milo wouldn't be even half so captivating to culture, if she would be whole. It's an interesting phenomenon, and by centuries she kept being one of the most famous sculptures." 

"Hannibal, do I look like Venus De Milo to you?" Will squints his eyes, all snark and sarcasm.

"No," Hannibal muses, humor in his voice, "I actually find you a lot more glorious than her," he admits easily, and whatever answer Will was expecting, it clearly _isn't_ this answer.

Will gives him a side eye, then rolls his shoulders, then averts his eyes, looks over the furniture and the flowers, then bounces his leg, then stands up and wipes his sweaty palms on his pants.

When he is ready to change the theme and squeeze out an excuse for running away, Hannibal is already behind him, stepping closer with a predatory elegance, looming over, cornering him without even touching. 

"I would love to show you your beauty, Will." He breaths into Will's neck. Looks at him shudder. "Just let me."

```

"I don't remember agreeing on ropes." Will scowls.

"That's because you didn't." Hannibal says simply, and gives Will a smile what more of a lip twitch, content and reassuring. “Now, behind your back or about your head?”

“I - _what_?”

Hannibal is as calm as ever.

"The ropes, Will. Are you more comfortable if I tie your hands behind your back or above your head?" 

Will looks at him with scandalized horror.

"I won't be comfortable being tied up _either_ way, Hannibal." 

"No?" Hannibal raises his eyebrows slightly. He doesn't pay much attention to Will's rectulance and comes up to him with the rope in his hand. "One could argue." 

Will glares at him for a good minute before he finally succumbs and ducks his head like an annoyed teenager. 

"Behind the back." He grunts, and Hannibal rewards him with a pleased nod. 

"Good choice." He praises.

Will's nose scrunches.

"I still don't get why I should be tied up. I'm already almost naked, thanks to you."

Technically, Will should be quite used to both of it, after the numerous times Hannibal restrained and redressed (and undressed) him. Maybe it had to do something with the fact what most of the time he was unconscious while Hannibal did it.

"In the name of art, Will." Hannibal says cheerfully, carefully tying up Wills wrists. They are masculine, pale and slender, and Hannibal caresses soft skin with his thumb. A pulse of life runs under his fingers, precious and oh so fragile.

Will is all but relaxed - shoulders tense, posture self defensive, strained tolerance on his face. He is naked except for a piece of white fabric that hangs low on his pelvis. Tied up to the decorative column, standing just like he did in Hannibal's office with his back against the ladder or wall.

Hannibal goes to his antique armchair, steady and unhurriedly. Shakes off the invisible dust from his dark brown slacks, gets comfortable, reaches for the sketchbook. Will just glares at him all this time, blush creeping over his cheeks, mouth twisted in a bratty scoff.

"Saint Sebastian," Hannibal begins, sharpening pencil with his scalpel, "Is one of the very popular biblical imagery for painters. In his martyrdom, he both suffers and delights from the pain. His religious exctasy is nearly erotic, and in a lot of paintings he looks like he enjoys being helplessly tried up and penetrated by dozens of arrows, both vulnerable to the barbaric men he thought as a his friends and high above them; superior." Hannibal leans back on the armchair, twisting a scalpel in his hand to make it gleam in the candle light. He looks at Will and meets wary blue eyes with detailed pupils. "Arrows, of course, often interpreted as phallic symbols." He adds, voice flowing like dark spicy chocolate, like molasses.

He can feel how his words pierce and envelop Will's mind; arouse and anger him because of arousal; can see how he swallows, suffocating.

"And for some unclear reason, you decided what it would be fun to draw me as him." Will says, tone dry.

"I wouldn't say what the reason is unclear." Hannibal's lips quirks up in an indulgent smile. He starts to measure Will's proportions with a pencil in his hand.

"You are a sadist." Will says matter of factly. He sounds unamused by his own words, because of course, he knew that before. He knew that and many other things way before. It was always a theme in Hannibal's artistic self expression, no matter what kind of canvas he used. "You're obsessed with being in control. Distress and suffering of others excites you,” he squints, “and you enjoy this all bit too much."

Hannibal tilts his head to the side, smug and pleased, and making just a little effort to look bashful.

"I always thought that the best duo is a duo formed from two opposites that share one core."

Will raises his eyebrows.

"Oh. What about being equal, Doctor Lecter?"

"Equality doesn't forbid originality, and doesn't force monotone sameness." He starts the sketch, technical and clean at first - but then, he watches Will's body, strong and beautiful, curves and angles and harsh lines and a burning, living spirit inside - and tries to relax his hand, allowing the charcoal line to visualize his passion. "In fact, equality fights for the same rights between the different."

Will sighs, relaxing his body. His eyelashes flutter just slightly, not in the coyly seductive way of manipulation Hannibal catches him sometimes, but in delicate serenity.

Botticelli, Guido Reni, Gerard van Honthorst, Carlo Dolci, Caravaggio; how envious they would be; how furious if they knew, _if they saw_ what Hannibal saw.

"At least you didn't shoot me with arrows." Will offers a knowing playful smile. "Yet."

Hannibal perks up, somewhat smitten. 

"Yet." He repeats, lovering his eyes, endeared. When he looks at Will again, Will throws his head back slightly, swan neck on defenseless display as his hazy eyes directed to the ceiling in the best portrayal of martyrdom. 

```

Sometimes, Hannibal catches Will staring at him with a lost expression on his face, when he thinks it's safe to stare. His blue eyes full of desperate, starved longing. 

Sometimes, Will comes up into his room, late at night, steps barely a sound. Hesitant and unsure, like a child who just had a nightmare. He checks if Hannibal is sleeping, what Hannibal always pretends to do, and lays near him on the edge of the bed. He probably knows what Hannibal isn't sleeping, but they both play this game. In the mornings he is gone, but for now, it's enough for Hannibal to feel the trace of his warmth on the crinkled bed sheet and musky saltness of his scent in the air.

Will was unstable, spiralling, it was clear as a day. He was depressive, and dissociative, and very often on a verge of a hysterical, neurotic breakdown. 

He could look at Hannibal with irritation and slight condescension and ask why he only served two plates for dinner, when Abigail was going to come back from the school soon. He could get angry without any logical (or real) reason, throwing and breaking things in their apartment, righteous and almost feral. He could sit on his bed and watch the wall the whole day. 

He cried, loathing Hannibal's embrace. 

He cried, seeking it.

It was the shore where Will was the happiest. 

_It feels just like when we lived on the beach trailer park with dad one time_ , he murmures, in the rose golden light of the sunset.

Hannibal watches him, resting on the white painted wooden bench, under the beach umbrella, sore and sated. The sea is gentle, humming lightly with tamed waves. They both smell like sunscreen, and sea, and each other. 

He feels like an ancient spirit who captivated and guarded a mystical, ethereal creature. Completely devoted. In love.

Throwing wood stick what he found on the shore away again and again, Will plays with a stray dog what they usually feed when they visit the beach, and his wet curls stick to his face, and his bare feet is covered in sand, and he laughs, achingly carefree and sinfully innocent.

It was beyond Hannibal, such an innocence, how it still pierced Will's core despite everything he's done, and despite everything Hannibal done to him; it was something what he himself lost centuries ago - if he even had it in the beginning, which about he wasn't really sure anymore. It reminded him of Mischa, and part of Hannibal wanted to gouge out the eyes that dared to look at Will; break every hand that touched him; he wanted to destroy every single soul, so there wouldn't be any living threat to Will except him.

 _Light of my life_ , Hannibal thinks. _Fire of my loins_. 

Will was a glimmering pearl born in the hot and tight ugliness of humanity. He was the light and he was the darkness, he was the power and he was the fragility. Just his existence remitted the sins of the whole human race, one his smile was enough to justify devouring a forbidden fruit in the garden of Eden.

He is the dearest thing Hannibal has.

Will eventually walks back to him when a stray dog licks his hands and runs away to chase seagulls. His skin is flushed, peachy pink from the undying attention of the sun, Hannibal's rival, and his lovely ears sticking out from the curls, making him look wild and elfish, like he just walked out from the Midsummer Nights Dream.

He looks at Hannibal, face serene, and plops down on the sand near him while Hannibal remains to lay on the beach bench, towering him. They watch the sunset together, then Will sighs, putting his hand on the bench handle lazily and resting his head on top of it.

"I'm hungry." He says, glancing up through his eyelashes. Hannibal tenderly cups his face with one hand and Will leans into the touch.

Hannibal wants to give him that sweet and easy peace he longs for.

"Let's go home," he murmurs, "I'll take care of it."

Will gives him a small smile, and Hannibal smiles in return.

And the rest is rust and stardust.

**Author's Note:**

> * I'm not threatening, I'm imploring, beseeching;  
> our past, Carmen - I forget it!  
> Yes, together we are going  
> to begin another life,  
> far from here, under new skies! //
> 
> ____
> 
> So.....Hannibal is a simp:/ thats it  
> If you liked it, please consider talking with me on tumblr or twitter, Ive just joined Hannigram fandom and have no friends here at all!!! (twit @/trailerparkbaby, tumblr @/trailerparkflower !!!)  
> Title from Monarchy-Disintegration, lyrics from Carmen, hidden quotes from Lolita. Check out Saint Sebastion because its literally Will in almost every painting,,


End file.
